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A few people on Twitter and my mom suggested I revive this sorry excuse for a blog. I started the blog when I had nothing much else to do other than talk shit on the interwebs. Well, more than usual. I’d been retrenched and didn’t have to put my pants on and go to work. Sitting in front of the computer without pants on is extremely liberating. Ask Julius. Since being kicked to the curb by his former comrades, he’s had less reason than I had back then to put his pants on in the morning. But then my money ran out (wait for it, Jubes) and I had to get a job. I know, life fucking sucks. I reluctantly put my pants back on and sort of turned my back on this blog. But what the fuck, quitting is for quitters. That sounded more profound about a second before I typed it.

A lot has happened in one year. Japan got a bit fucked up by a tsunami, a few dictators kicked the bucket and Julius got his pants pulled down past his sorry arse where he’s left them. And we also entered the last year of human existence. According to those Mayan dudes and a few morons in Hollywood. The Christian fundamentalists, on the other hand, have been predicting the last year before Jesus comes back every year for two thousand years, but I’m scared of calling them morons. Just in case they’re right, you know. Imagine. Julius and me would be caught with our pants down. No seventy virgins for us. Wait, that’s another religion, isn’t it? God, I’ve got to cut down on the booze.

Speaking of the devil’s party juice, I got so shitfaced on New Years because I thought that was when the world was coming to an end, that I’ve only just recovered from the hangover. Turns out I have this entire year to party it up before pulling myself together before the end of the year and the lights go out.

So, here are a few things I firmly believe will make this final year of our existence fucking rock. Call it a bucket list if you like, I’ll just call it an excuse to fucking party like there’s no tomorrow. Because let’s face it, there is no tomorrow. There is only today. I should be the next Pope or something. Or the next reincarnation of that Llama dude who isn’t a lama.

Strive to establish a new world record for the most orgasms ever I have no idea how the hell you’re going to prove that you’re choking the chicken or bucking like a wild bronco more than your average porn star / teenager / me, but at least you can pretend that you are a masturbating legend. I think this will take your mind off the fact that the world is screwed. If you’re getting happily screwed all the time, that’s even better, because who cares if the world is about to get proper fucked when you are. There are so many puns in there my head is spinning.

No pants I know that Julius and I have dibs on this, but technically it’s not a work environment thing for us. You, on the other hand, can do what these (see below) beautiful underwear-clad people do every year in January. Doing it at home is beyond boring and like I said, Julius and I have dibs on that. Can you imagine if we tried this in South Africa? Fuck me gently, there’d be hell to pay. And that’s why I think you need to do it. Besides, I’m tired of flipping through women’s magazines to see chicks in their underwear.

Fight corruption Again, I have no idea how you’re going to do this, other than join them. You heard me. Fight fire with fire. Sure, you’ll have to somehow get your hands on billions of rands of tax payers’ stolen money and then turn it into gravy to fuel your gravy plane, gravy train and gravy boat. You can pretend (you’ll have lots of practice learning to pretend – just re-read the point about jerking off like a chicken-killer) that the money is headed in the right direction, when in fact it’s just headed straight for your live-like-a-king trust fund. I’ll leave the finer details up to you. If you struggle a bit to get going, call me. I’ll give you Julius’ BB pin and tell him to accept your friend request on Facebook. He’ll give you a few pointers.

I’m a little drunk right now so I can’t think of one more thing that is going to make this year any better – or worse for that matter. You’ve gotta love your man, if you’re a chick. And you gotta love your girl, if you’re a dude. And if you’re a chick who doesn’t like dicks or a dude who does, well you know what to do. This is our year, motherfuckers. Because it’s our last. Probably not, but you’re just going to sleep, eat and watch TV if I don’t scare the bejesus out of you. Get out there and make it count. Gotta go, my favourite show is coming on…

You’re mistaken. I’ve not been locked up for the illegal possession of “llama” (it’s what the kids are calling weed these days). You’re absolutely correct; I’ve neglected this blog and should be shot at dawn with a staple gun until copiously bleeding from my nuts for having done so. But cut me some slack. I’m basically the equivalent of an internet hobo, squatting in the shadows of a logged off world in my apartment and then forgetting to take advantage of internet connectivity at work. I guess I’m just like you… a bit of a moron.

I suppose greater men would have continued to write hilarious accounts of invisible llamas and adventurous sexual exploits wearing nothing but their extra-large condoms and then hacked into the nearest local network through their microwaves in order to upload their magnificent prose for three people to read. But I like to think I’ve kept you all in a state of heightened suspense ready to… well, you know, gasp with pleasure at my sudden return from a writer’s premature grave.

Anyway, here’s some free advice to help you survive 2011, which is looking like the year people everywhere in Northern Africa decided to throw rocks at their oppressive regimes: If you’re walking around the streets like a lost fart in a perfume factory and see an angry mob of motherfuckers throwing shit at riot police, get on your llama or other mode of transport and head in the opposite direction. Don’t say I didn’t warn you when you choke to death on tear gas.

Or, you could join them. Who knows, you may become a legend by throwing the stone that finally smacks Gaddafi between his shifty eyes, convincing him that he should quickly retire to his villa in Southern Spain before being sodomised by a llama and then disembowelled by angry revolutionaries.

But wait, there’s more free advice and llama love where that came from … Be tenacious. Just like those agitated mobs flipping the bird at Gaddafi and biting the bullet in the process. Tenacious like that Norman D. Vaughan dude who said, “Dream big and dare to fail.” Now, before you think he had tiny little balls like Gaddafi and a bigger ego, let me set the record straight: Norman had gigantic planet-sized testes made of titanium. He could have used his nuts as wrecking balls if he wanted to.

Norman was an American dogsled driver who was part of the first expedition to reach the South Pole. By the age of 68, however, he was divorced and bankrupt. Did poor old Norman crawl into a foetal position and whimper like a defeated twit? Not a fucking chance. He rebuilt his life. And then at the age of 88, he climbed a 3,150 metre mountain (10,000 feet for all you foreign morons). Fuck me gently, that’s an impressive pair of old man balls he swung between his legs.

When he turned 100, Norman was going to climb the same mountain again. But unfortunately, he died, as people tend to do at that age. I blame his mamma. You see, he had promised the old goat that he wouldn’t drink any alcohol until he was 100. So, on his 100th birthday he took his first sip of bubbly. He kicked the bucket a few days later, before he could pull his mountain gear over his wrinkled beach balls one last time.

A little tenacity chipped off Norman’s old block will take us all a long way in life. It sure did wonders for him. But I don’t advise you wait until you’re 100 to take your first sip of booze. That’s going to shock the living fuck out of your liver and kill you.

Dude, I have a bone to pick with you. Quite a big one as it turns out.

You sold me with the poster, especially using smart marketing words like “power” and “enlargement”. And the 100% herbal bit — very environmentally responsible and all. No one wants to rub some artificial chemical shit on their dick that will only increase the size of their pecker because of massive inflammation. I should know. Been there, done that.

I was quivering with anticipation when your package arrived in the mail — I would have preferred a courier service using a stripper dressed up as a courier person and offering one free lap dance per delivery, but at least the goods arrived after four weeks, which has never happened with any of the other dick treatments I’ve paid good money for over the internet.

Anyway, as there were no instructions with your 100% herbal penis cream, I gingerly set about applying the substance, which God has been keeping a sneaky secret until you discovered it while gardening naked in Nigeria. I’m writing to let you know that you are not a complete liar, Prof Ivan. This shit fucking works! But here’s the problem — it works on anything! While rubbing the stuff on very carefully to the bit needing power and enlargement, one of my testicles started itching. I’m sure you’ll agree, it’s only natural to give an afflicted nut a good scratch. I now have a very powerful and enlarged left testicle. It feels like I’m swinging a fucking watermelon in a hammock between my legs. I also scratched my right earlobe and must have applied your powerful cream there as well. If you look at that side of my head I appear to be one of those primitive tribesmen sporting gigantic earlobes that impress primitive tribal ladies. Earlobes stretched, I can only assume, by hanging something the size of my left nut from them.

Sure, I now also have a one-foot-long schlong. That’s all good and well until you look at me naked, as I have done in the mirror ever since while screaming “No, Jesus, noooooooooo!” I mean, I look like a fucking circus freak! With a dick the size of a donkey’s, one pathetically small testicle beside its retarded giant of a brother, and an earlobe flapping against the side of my face like Nelly the bloody elephant. Your product should come with a warning — don’t scratch your balls and earlobes while applying my awesome dick enhancer unless you want to look like a freak.

I’d like my money back. I’ll keep the enlarged penis, thank you very much, but I suggest you go digging around in your garden and find a cure to shrink my ball and earlobe back to their normal size. Send it with one of those lap-dancing courier services and we’ll call it quits.

What’s my favourite Bible verse? Other than that one about the woman lusting after her lovers who have schlongs to rival donkey porn stars and the ejaculating potential of sperm whales, I love the one about Jesus turning water into vodka. Wait, brandy? Maybe it was a very nice Cabernet, I don’t remember. But it was booze and that makes him super awesome. And then I also really love the one where good Christian people are told to turn the other bum cheek. You know, to not get all fucking angry and pissy every time shit doesn’t go their own way.

Like today. When Facebook nearly exploded with all the comments about Woolworths making a “business decision” to no longer stock religious magazines. It was the most excitement our local social media has enjoyed since that Pigfucker dude decided to use Twitter to alert motorists about speed traps and road blocks and flying pigs.

Christians took to using the devil’s very own tool forged in the fiery pit of hell — Facebook! The Woolworths fan page was buzzing with angry tirades about how God was going to fuck up the retailers if they didn’t put all those Christian magazines no one reads back on their shelves. But they forgot that other lesser-known Bible verse that teaches religious people not to piss in the wind. Simple fact: you’re probably going to piss yourself. Moron.

Piss was flying all over the place, to tell you the truth. Plenty of it in the general direction of all the bent-out-of-shape Christian folk who want to buy expensive food and read all about God’s love for the poor and hungry while they wait in the check-out line. There was also a lot of pissing against the metaphorical wall of the retailer’s fan page, probably because it’s fun to try to pee-write your name against a wall when you’ve had a few. Take this person’s comment for example: “Jesus listens … to Slayer!” Right on, but not quite on point, you silly fucker.

And then this smart-ass joins in with “as a hotblooded male with natural urges I demand Hustler and Loslyf [naked chicks showing the world what the good Lord gave em] to be stocked on Woolworth’s shelves!” Very fucking mature. I bet he reads this blog.

If you’ve always wanted a forum on Facebook where Christians tear their neighbours a new one in the name of Christ and then their faithless hellbound friends just use the much bigger hole to crap all over them, your prayers have been answered. And there must be a God, because Woolworths has retracted their decision and made another business decision to once again sell those magazines that no one reads. But not Hustler. Sorry for the dude who would like his wanking material close at hand when he waits to pay for his overpriced goods. But maybe he’ll finally discover the internet.

There you go. Hot under the dog collar over nothing really, while real wars continue to be waged and children die of hunger and morons continue to reproduce. I think I’ll go and quaff some Merlot while I page through my latest subscription copy of Hustler.

Some people think there is something special about numbers. Take the number ten for example. Thousands of years ago the Mayans supposedly predicted the world would end in 2012. But just so we would not be completely caught off guard when the world suddenly ends, they apparently also wrote some prophecies possibly using llama dung (that shit lasts forever) telling us that 10.10.10 would be, yes, just another day the earth continued its orbit around the sun, but also a special day when we’d all say to each other: Fuck! The world is going to end in 2012. If we don’t get right with God / pass a bill banning crocs / invent another calendar that somehow fast-tracks the world to a date after 2012 thereby fooling the universe and letting us off the hook for another 100 years, we’re all fucked.

The world somehow keeps on turning despite all the morons that live on it. Probably long after 2012. And morons keep on coming up with batshit ideas to understand why it does and when it may stop or who the fuck invented crocs. And just in case all those Mayan prophecies and mystical numbers and pyramids in the desert are actually the diabolical work of aliens, the UN has appointed an alien ambassador — or more specifically, space ambassador for extraterrestrial contact affairs. I llama-shit you not. It’s all hush-hush and no it’s not Will Smith. I’m as shocked as the rest of you. Our point person if the little green men from outer space visit us is Malayasian astrophysicist Mazlan Othman. It’s not a dude. It’s a woman. I think that’s a very clever move by the UN. Men only fuck things up. We’d either want to fight those little green fuckers with all the nuclear arsenal at our disposal and lose anyway because they have lasers or if they turn out to be gorgeous green women with perky tits, we’ll just want lap dances and stop worrying about 2012. We all lose again in that scenario, although we die with hard-ons.

Why the hell do we need an alien ambassador? According to this Othman chick, “someday humankind will receive signals from extraterrestrials. When we do, we should have in place a coordinated response that takes into account all the sensitivities related to the subject.” Exactly. Like whether it’s star wars or lap dances we should expect. Fuck me, is this woman wandering around the UN building with her cellphone fully charged hoping the aliens will give her a missed call just before they land in the parking lot? For all we know aliens would be far more interested in conversing with insects. After all, creepy crawlies rule the planet if we’re talking about sheer numbers here.

Fellow morons, eat, drink and by merry for tomorrow we may be visited by aliens.

Namaste

PS Thanks to my good friends the barefoot Mountain Man and his lovely veggie-eating partner Madam Marketing for the heads up about the alien welcoming committee. I would have been pissed if I woke up to find green people in my garden and didn’t know who to call.

You’ve heard about the local hero keeping the streets of Joburg safe for speeding motorists … you know, the dude who goes by the unforgettable username of @PigSpotter? This kind of real-life hide and seek game is why social media was invented.

@PigSpotter, with the help of plenty other motorists with cellphones, is ensuring that motorists slow down to the appropriate speed limit and avoid being pulled over and forced to bribe a willing officer of the law fined. Or just find another speedy route home.

So, if you’re a metro cop, you’ve definitely heard about the pig motherfucker. And you would love to get your hands on this pork chop who is fucking up all your fun. And fry his bacon. It’s okay, I would feel just as pissed off as you okes if some moron got the bright idea while taking a crap of using Twitter to alert motorists about cops hiding behind bushes with their cameras to trap all those maniac Joburg drivers who drive 150 in a 60 zone. In reverse.

Know what I’d do if I was the chief copper with his panties in a knot about @PigSpotter? I’d create a whole bunch of Twitter accounts just like Cliff’s (his real name is probably Frikkie). I’d use these Twitter accounts to alert motorists everywhere about my honourable police officers hiding behind fake bushes, in public toilets, in dustbins outside KFC, fucking everywhere you may expect a cop to hide. Motorists, bushwhackers, perverts, chicken munchers, practically everyone would be on high alert and driving about at a snail’s pace / jerking off at home / eating veggies. The world would become a better place overnight. And I, @FuckingAmazingCop, would silence this swine who has dared to embarrass me and all my honest fellow cops.

All you fascists out there who would like to control how social media is used, the joke’s on you.

The Moron

Follow my unholy joyride at your own peril. Be warned, careless insults and gratuitous profanity buzz around these pages like flies about a dead llama. But you will also read unbelievably profound wisdom that will completely blow your mind and make you come back for more. Or shoot yourself. Your choice.

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